JTrmtft  <®. 


By  SETH  MOYLE 


PRIVATELY  PRINTED 
AND  NOT  FOR  SALE 


NEW  YORK 

THE  H.  K.  FLY  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


.  Ifcnrg 

By 
SETH  MOYLE 


J& 


NEW  YORK 

THE  H.  K.  FLY  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,  1914,  by 
SETH  MOYLE 


A; 


IN  APPRECIATION 


To  Larry  Evans  — 

Like  O.  Henry  and  "  Good-Heart  Taylor,"  when  my  need 
was  great,  it  was  your  re-assuring  hand-clasp,  stretched 
out  afar  from  the  desolation  of  wintry  Saranac  Lake 
to  selfish,  pitiless  Gotham,  that  restored  confidence 
and  helped  set  right  many  things  that  were  radically 
wrong. 

Despite  this  age  of  sordid  commercialism,  all  sentiment 
is  not  dead  and  now  and  then  we  see  evidences  of  ap 
preciation  of  goodness  and  a  kind  act  unselfishly  rendered. 
It  is  this  spirit  which  has  prompted  my  dedication  to 
you  and  your  work,  of  this  little  volume  with  its  many 
intimacies  of  a  privileged  affectionate  association  for 
many  years  with  the  Master  himself. 

And  to  — 

Gilman  Hall,  Archie  Sessions,  Bob  Davis,  Bill  Johnston, 
Mrs.  Wilson  Woodrow,  Anne  Partlan,  Roland  Phillips, 
Bob  MacCulloch,  and  the  fine  little  woman  who,  on 
bended  knees,  in  "  The  Little  Church  Around  The  Corner  " 
on  that  memorable  day  in  June  paid  her  silent  tribute 
through  prayer,  to  the  memory  of  O.  Henry,  I  tender 
grateful  acknowledgment. 

These  friends  have  indeed  made  possible  this  booklet. 


388047 


MY  FRIEND  O.  HENRY' 

O  I  went  to  a  doctor. 

"  *  How  long  has  it  been  since  you  took  any  al 
cohol  into  your  system?'  he  asked. 

"  Turning  my  head  sidewise,  I  answered,  '  Oh, 
quite  a  while/ 

"  He  was  a  young  doctor,  somewhere  between 
twenty  and  forty.  He  wore  heliotrope  socks,  but 
he  looked  like  Napoleon.  I  liked  him  immensely.  He  bared  my 
left  arm  to  the  elbow,  brought  out  a  bottle  of  whiskey,  and  gave 
me  a  drink.  He  began  to  look  more  like  Napoleon.  I  began  to 
like  him  better." 

Could  anything  better  typify  the  master-pen  than  this,  his  satiri 
cal,  philosophical  "  Swan  Song,"  as  published  in  the  "  Cosmopoli 
tan  Magazine  " —  a  humorous  review,  from  a  man  brought  face  to 
face  with  the  inevitable  end,  of  his  own  "Adventures  In  Neu 
rasthenia  "? 

Read  the  story.  I  was  with  him  —  a  dying  man  —  through  the 
entire  writing  of  it,  and  through  the  writing  of  many  others. 

And  be  informed. 

The  "  prescription "  amulet  he  really  wore. 

The  incidents  at  "the  retreat,"  from  which  he  retreated  pre 
cipitately,  did  occur. 

The  co-ordination  tests  all  were  true. 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  a  silence,"  was  the  basic  theme.  A  return 
to  Manhattan,  with  its  ding-clang  and  moaning  of  the  cars,  with 
its  nimble  of  elevated  trains  and  shrieks  of  automobile  sirens  — 
for  absolute  rest  and  exercise  — that  was  to  have  been  the  climax. 

There  was  to  be  no  girl. 

Roland  Phillips,  who  ordered  the  story,  and  the  encyclopedia,  are 
responsible  for  "  Amarylis." 

(Incidentally,  it  is  too  bad  there  were  not  more  such  appreciative- 
in-the-$-&-c-way  editors  in  the  Master's  lifetime.  If  there  had 
been,  many  dreams  would  have  been  realized  by  him,  many  hearts 
would  have  been  made  glad,  the  world  would  have  been  better  for 
it  all,  and  O.  Henry  would  have  lived  longer  to  communicate  some 
of  the  really  great  messages  that  died  with  him.) 

7 


8 MY  FRIEND  O.  HENRY 

It  was  due  to  Oilman  Hall  and  Kichard  Duffy,  co-editors  at 
"  Ainslee's "  that  O.  Henry  came  to  New  York,  and  they  had 
most  to  do  with  encouraging  him  in  his  work.  Certainly  no 
friend  was  closer  to  him  than  Oilman  Hall,  and  it  was  for  him 
he  sent  when  on  his  death-bed,  Oilman  Hall,  now  associate  editor 
of  "  Everybody's  Magazine,"  a  man,  who,  indeed  in  kindliness  and 
fair  treatment  of  his  fellowmen,  reflects  O.  Henry  himself. 

So  much  has  been  written  about  Sydney  Porter  that  it  would 
seem  useless  to  add  more.  But  here  are  some  anecdotes,  some 
original  MSS.,  and  some  little  sidelights  that  thus  far  have  escaped 
public  notice.  As  a  preface  to  them,  and  for  those  who  are  not  as 
familiar  with  his  history  as  others,  I  quote  from  Archie  Sessions' 
estimate  of  him  printed  in  the  August  "Ainslee's,"  just  following 
his  death. 

"  The  death  of  Sydney  Porter,  who  was  known  to  the  readers  of 
'Ainslee's'  as  O.  Henry,  has  ended  a  career  which,  beginning  in 
this  magazine  nine  years  ago,  brought  him  distinction  achieved  by 
only  a  chosen  few. 

"The  relations  maintained  between  O.  Henry  and  'Ainslee's' 
from  the  date  of  the  acceptance  of  his  first  story  in  February,  1901, 
up  to  the  time  of  his  death,  were  such  as  to  render  it  impossible 
for  us  to  allow  the  event  to  pass  without  something  more  than  the 
ordinary  obituary  notice. 

"He  himself  fully  participated  in  the  sentiment  which  was  the 
foundation  of  these  relations,  and  frequently  expressed  the  feeling 
which  bound  him  to  this  magazine  as  the  medium  through  which 
his  first  stories  were  given  to  the  public.  In  a  letter  written  shortly 
before  his  death,  he  referred  to  '  the  old  magazine '  in  terms  which 
showed  the  sincerity  and  depth  of  his  feeling. 

"Ainslee's'  has,  therefore,  had  a  certain  pride  in  the  fame  of 
O.  Henry,  a  pride  which  his  modesty  led  him  to  deprecate  while 
he  good-naturedly  surrendered  to  it. 

"His  first  story  was  'Money  Maze/  and  it  appeared  in  'Ainslee's 
Magazine'  for  May,  1901.  It  attracted  immediate  attention,  and 
stimulated  the  curiosity  of  various  publishers  who  promptly  made 
inquiries  of  the  editor  of  the  magazine,  as  to  the  identity  of  '  O 


MY  FRIEND  O.  HENRY 


Henry.'  As  he  was  absolutely  unknown  at  the  time,  the  facts  in 
the  case  may  serve  to  correct  the  impression  so  often  and  so  con 
fidently  expressed,  that  unknown  authors  and  beginners  have 
little  chance  with  editors.  In  the  course  of  the  year  which  followed 
he  wrote  a  number  of  short  stories,  which  appeared  in  *  Ainslee's,' 
including  *  Rouge  et  Noir,'  '  The  Flag  Paramount,'  *  The  Passing 
of  Black  Eagle,'  and  *  Friends  in  San  Rosario,'  all  of  which 
showed  unmistakably  the  extraordinary  quality  of  his  gift.  Besides 
this,  he  made  attempts  at  writing  a  novel  and  a  four-part  story,  of 
which  he  submitted  scenarios.  But  these  attempts,  which  came  to 
nothing,  brought  the  conviction,  always  thereafter  tenaciously  held 
by  him,  that  his  forte  was  the  short  story,  and  not  the  novel. 
*  Cabbages  and  Kings,'  the  only  other  experiment  of  the  kind  he 
ever  made,  was  not,  strictly  speaking,  a  long  story,  but  merely  the 
reprint  of  several  short  tales  of  a  uniform  type. 

"  A  few  of  his  stories  were  published  in  '  Ainslee's '  under  the 
names  of  James  L.  Bliss  and  S.  H.  Peters,  notably  '  The  Robe  of 
Peace '  and  '  While  the  Auto  Waits,'  two  of  the  most  delicious  and 
perfect  bits  of  fiction  that  he  ever  wrote,  but  which  his  subsequent 
fame  as  the  prophet  of  'The  Four  Million'  has,  unfortunately, 
more  or  less  obscured. 

"The  reputation  made  for  him  by  these  early  tales  inevitably 
created  a  widespread  demand  for  his  work  among  other  publishers 
and  editors,  but  his  loyalty  to  'Ainslee's'  never  wavered,  and  he 
continued  to  contribute  much  of  his  best  to  this  magazine.  '  Blind 
Man's  Holiday,'  'The  Memento,'  and  'Compliments  of  the  Sea 
son  '  being  among  the  later  ones. 

"That  O.  Henry  was  a  man  of  genius  is  beyond  all  question. 
Those  who  knew  him  and  were  familiar  with  his  methods  of  work 
had  proofs  of  it  in  addition  to  that  furnished  by  his  printed  stories. 

"  Distinguished  and  disinterested  critics  have  compared  O.  Henry 
to  Maupassant.  But  the  comparison  is  unnecessary  and  unjust  to 
both.  The  glory  of  genius  is  that  it  is  eternally  original  and  new, 
and  the  fame  of  both  must  rest  upon  the  fact  that  they  were  vitally 
and  fundamentally  different,  not  only  each  from  the  other,  but  from 
every  other  master  of  fiction  and  for  all  time." 


I0  MY  FRIEND  O.  HENRY 

His  loyalty  to  the  editors  of  "Ainslee's"  reflected  his  greatest 
characteristic.  It  was  a  wonderful  thing,  this  loyalty  and  de 
votion.  Greater  love  had  no  man  for  his  fellowmen. 


UITE  in  keeping  with  "  The  Adventures  in  Neuras 
thenia"  mood  were  his  last  words,  as  he  realized 
that  he  was  passing  into  the  Great  Beyond  — "Prop 
up  the  pillows,  pull  up  the  blinds,  '  I'm  Afraid  To 
Go  Home  in  the  Dark/  " 

And,  too,  his  remarks  to  me  when  we  discussed 
the  inevitable  end,  some  few  months  before  it 
came.  With  a  shrug  of  the  shoulders  and  a  whimsical  smile,  he 
exclaimed,  "Well,  I  guess  it  will  take  place  'In  the  Good  Old 
Summer  Time.'" 

One  of  the  most  amusing  incidents  of  our  association  took  place 
one  night  at  "Allaire's  Sheffel  Hall."  My  apartment  was  located 
on  iyth  Street  near  Irving  Place  opposite  this  old-time  German 
restaurant.  To  this  place  and  to  "  Still's  "  just  around  the  corner, 
O.  Henry  loved  to  go. 

It  was  not  unusual,  in  the  "  wee  sma'  hours  "  of  the  morning  to 
receive  a  telephone  call  at  this  iyth  Street  apartment.    The  vibra 
tion  of  the  voice  instantly  reflected  the  lonesomeness  of  the  genius. 
"Are  you  there?"  he  would  inquire. 
"  Well,  I'm  here." 
"Is  this  you?" 
"  Well,  this  is  me." 
"  I'm  coming  right  over." 

And  a  minute  later  the  door-bell  would  ring  and  O.  Henry,  who 
had  been  telephoning  from  the  public  hall  and  not  from  his  own 
apartment  (a  couple  of  miles  away),  would  announce  himself. 

This  was  his  quaint  way  of  doing  things  and  it  was  in  some  such 
mood  that  he  visited  Sheffel  Hall  on  the  following  occasion. 
Gathered  in  our  little  party  at  the  time  was  a  most  celebrated 
alienist,  an  equally  celebrated  criminal  lawyer,  Charles  Somer- 
ville,  journalist,  Gilpin,  V.  C.,  and  a  few  other  celebrities.  For 
some  time,  in  anticipation  of  meeting  O.  Henry,  the  venerable 
Doctor  had  been  carrying  around  with  him  two  volumes  of  the 


\ 

MY  FRIEND  O.  HENRY  n 

author's   works  —  for   impressionistic   purposes.     (Those   "  in   the 
know"  will  appreciate  how  unfortunate  this  was.) 

Having  a  reputation  as  a  humorist,  the  Doctor  expected  O. 
Henry  to  sustain  it  with  some  funny  anecdotes,  a  thing,  because 
of  his  reticence,  he  seldom  did. 

Modest,  diffident,  shy,, he  was  the  last  man  to  take  the  center 
of  the  stage  or  to  mix  where  hero-worshipping  prevailed. 

On  this  occasion  he  probably  felt  as  did  Chopin,  who  after  din 
ing,  was  repeatedly  urged  by  his  host  to  play. 

"  Ah,"  said  he,  with  supreme  sarcasm,  "  having  partaken  of  your 
food  I  must  now  pay  with  play." 

Doubtless  this  was  the  mind-state  of  O.  Henry,  and  his  sense 
of  humor  led  him  to  "  feed  "  the  Doctor  and  others  the  worst  line 
of  "chestnuts"  I  ever  have  heard. 

"Why  does  a  chicken  cross  the  road,"  (with  an  impressive 
pause)  "hurriedly?"  he  inquired,  with  great  seriousness. 

"To  get  out  of  the  way  of  the  automobile,"  he  added,  quickly, 
before  anyone  could  interrupt. 

The  alienist  snorted,  the  distinguished  ladies  in  the  party  gig 
gled,  the  celebrated  lawyer  beamed  a  broad  Irish  grin,  Charlie 
Somerville  took  another  drink  and  Gilpin,  V.  C.,  looked  peeved. 

A  little  later,  with  that  gravity  that  was  so  characteristic  of 
him,  O.  Henry  remarked, 

"  I'm  afraid,  Doctor,  that  you  have  made  a  mistake  about  my 
identity,"  with  a  steady  glance  at  the  two  O.  Henry  volumes 
prominently  displayed  on  the  table.  "  I  am  not  O.  Henry.  I  am 
Mark  Twain." 

And  then  the  Doctor  took  to  Pilsener,  to  recover  his  equilib 
rium,  whilst  Gilpin,  V.  C.,  Charlie  Somerville  and  the  imperson 
ator  of  his  only  real  rival  in  humor,  took  their  departure  and 
made  for  "  Still's "  just  across  the  way. 

One  evening,  at  this  lyth  Street  apartment,  a  young  man  with 
considerable  pianistic  skill  was  "tearing  loose"  with  his  most 
pretentious  offerings  to  "make  an  impression"  with  O.  Henry, 
who  had  just  arrived  in  person  and  who  had  only  a  short  time 
before  "arrived"  in  public  esteem  as  a  humorist  and  philosopher. 


12 MY  FRIEND  O.  HENRY 

The  virtuoso  was  well  launched  in  the  stormiest  passage  of  a 
Liszt  Hungarian  Rhapsodic  when  the  author  approached  him  dif 
fidently.  Tapping  him  on  the  shoulder  he  whispered  sotto 
voce  in  his  ear,  with  great  satisfaction,  "I  know  what  that 
is." 

The  pianist  was  flattered  and  tripled  on  the  fortissimo  by  way 
of  appreciation. 

"  Indeed  I  do.  It's  an  awful  lot  of  noise.  Please  stop  it  and 
play  Chopin's  Funeral  March,"  which,  by  the  way  was  the  only 
classical  piece  I  knew  him  to  care  for,  though  he  did  want  to  get 
acquainted  with  Beethoven. 

For  quite  some  time  I  endeavored  to  bring  together  O.  Henry 
and  another  client  of  mine,  the  most  celebrated  woman  fiction 
realist  in  America  to-day.  My  best  plans  failed  and  it  was  quite 
without  design  that  their  one  and  only  meeting  took  place. 

The  little  lady,  who  had  not  at  that  time  reached  the  position 
of  pre-eminence  that  she  now  occupies,  although  even  then  she 
was  recognized  as  an  author  of  the  greatest  possible  promise,  and 
I,  were  lunching  at  "  Colazzi's."  In  response  to  a  telephone 
request  O.  Henry  surprised  us  by  coming  around  the  corner  from 
his  studio  apartment  at  the  Caledonia. 

It  was  not  long  before  the  subject  of  method  of  work,. etc.,  a 
favorite  theme  with  the  little  lady,  was  well  under  discussion. 

"  Do  you  know,"  said  she,  "  I  just  love  to  get  into  the  heart  of 
things  — to  really  see  people  and  conditions  as  they  are?  I  can 
just  picture  you  in  a  bare  hall  bedroom,  prying  curiously  out  into 
the  night  at  the  dimly-lit  rooms  across  the  way,  and  getting  at 
mosphere.  Do  tell  me  just  how  you  go  about  it?" 

Absolutely  belying  any  attempt  at  humor  or  sarcasm,  O.  Henry 
replied: 

"  Getting  the  hall  bedroom,  cheap  boarding-house  '  atmosphere ' 
into  the  pages  of  your  manuscript  is  simple.  You  see,  I  have  two 
very  nice  quiet  little  rooms  around  on  26th  Street  in  an  elevator 
apartment  house  and  there's  a  restaurant  just  down  stairs.  That's 
convenient. 

"When  I   want   'atmosphere'  I   telephone   down.     Soon   after, 


MY  FRIEND  O.  HENRY  13 

with  paper  before  me  and  pencil  in  hand  and  with  my  nostrils  in 
haling  the  healthy  odor  of  corned  beef  and  cabbage,  I  am  steeped 
in  boarding-house  atmosphere  and  the  story  is  well  on  its  way." 

My  lady  client  gasped  her  surprise  and  then  we  changed  the 
subject. 

But  when  an  author  friend  really  needed  help  with  a  story  I 
have  known  O.  Henry  to  stop  his  own  work  and  devote  hours  to 
the  service.  One  incident  impressed  itself  indelibly  on  my  mind. 
It  was  a  first  story  and  one  of  considerable  promise.  Charlie 
Somerville,  who  was  visiting  the  author-hostess,  was  criticising 
the  manuscript  when  O.  Henry  arrived.  A  discussion  started 
which  occupied  the  best  part  of  the  afternoon. 

Charlie  insisted  that  a  certain  situation  should  be  handled  in  an 
altogether  different  way.  O.  Henry  pointed  out  that  he  would 
present  it  from  still  another  angle  and  give  it  a  decidedly  different 
turn  at  the  end.  Finally,  the  author,  who  had  dinner  to  get, 
"  shooed  "  Messrs.  Genius  out  of  the  apartment,  still  haggling  over 
the  proposition  as  though  it  were  their  own.  And,  womanlike, 
she  wound  up  by  doing  it  her  way  after  all.  The  story  sold  to 
"  Good  Heart  Taylor,"  editor  of  "  The  Associated  Sunday  Maga 
zine,"  the  first  market  approached,  and  made  a  hit.  It  was  called 
"The  Dream  Mother." 

For  a  year  the  best  ideas  O.  Henry  ever  had  were  furnished 
weekly  through  the  "  Sunday  World "  and  syndicated  throughout 
the  United  States.  For  these  stories  he  received  only  fifty  dol 
lars  each.  The  contract,  when  renewed,  was  increased  to  one  hun 
dred  dollars  each.  The  same  material  now  would  bring  from  one 
thousand  to  fifteen  hundred  dollars  each. 

It  is  a  wonder  big  genial  Bill  Johnston  did  not  have  nervous 
prostration  during  the  period  of  delivery  of  these  stories.  Many 
times  he  telephoned  urging  for  copy  only  to  be  assured  that  the 
story  was  on  the  way.  As  evidence  of  good  faith  O.  Henry  would 
give  him  the  title  to  announce  —  and  then,  crowded  with  many 
worries,  he  would  forget  it.  When,  at  the  eleventh  hour,  Bill 
would  be  obliged  to  insist  on  the  manuscript  itself,  O.  Henry  very 
adroitly  would  ascertain  the  title  and,  over  night,  turn  out  a  first- 


14 MY  FRIEND  O.  HENRY 

class  story  written  around  it.    There  are  several  such  stories  in 
"The  Four  Million." 

Apropos  of  this  "  Sunday  World  "  contract,  which  had  much  to 
do  with  establishing  the  reputation  of  O.  Henry,  it  was  Bob 
Davis,  now  editor-in-chief  of  all  the  Frank  A.  Munsey  publica 
tions,  who  made  the  arrangement.  Commenting  on  his  first  meet 
ing  he  has  said: 

"  The  first  time  I  saw  this  extraordinary  man  was  in  1903.  I 
had  been  deputized  by  'The  New  York  Sunday  World*  to  verify 
a  rumor  that  he  was  in  New  York.  After  three  days'  research,  I 
found  him  on  the  top  floor  of  the  Hotel  Marty  on  West  24th 
Street.  He  was  seated  in  his  shirt-sleeves  by  an  open  window  eat 
ing  Bartlett  pears. 

' '  Come  in,  Mister/  he  said,  with  a  cordial  wave  of  his  hand, 
'and  have  a  pear.  What  can  I  do  for  you?' 

"  Without  losing  any  time,  I  launched  into  the  business.  '  "  The 
New  York  World  "  wants  you  to  do  some  work  for  its  Sunday  edi 
tion.' 

' '  How  much  do  they  want  to  pay  for  it? ' 

"  I  named  a  price. 

"'  All  right,  Mister.  Take  two  pears  — take  the  bag.  When  do 
we  begin  this  work?' 

' '  At  once/  I  informed  him. 

"If  that  is  the  case/  he  concluded,  fanning  himself  violently, 
'  wait  till  I  cool  off  and  we  will  go  down-stairs  and  have  something 
to  eat.' 

"  Regardless  of  the  fact  that  the  weather  was  ninety  in  the  shade 
that  afternoon,  we  sat  in  the  dining  room  of  The  Marty  and  con 
sumed  a  table-d'hote  dinner. 

^  The  next  day  O.  Henry's  career  began  in  earnest 

I  saw  him  frequently  thereafter,  watched  every  step  in  his 
progress,  studied  him  in  all  his  droll  phases,  saw  him  rise  to  the 
very  height  of  his  fame  and  talked  with  him  a  few  days  before  he 
passed  into  immortality. 

"The  fiction  of  O.  Henry  breathes,  perchance,  in  larger  proper- 
tion  than  any  other  single  writer,  the  spirit  of  our  times.  He 


MY  FRIEND  O.  HENRY 15 

seemed  to  comprehend  that  polyglot  population  which,  for  want  of 
a  better  term,  is  denned  as  the  American  mass.  He  dug  deeply 
into  every  human  emotion  with  the  point  of  his  quill  and  swept 
away  with  its  feather  the  dust  of  time.  He  seems  to  have  occu 
pied  the  best  seat  in  the  world's  arena  and  to  have  pictured  the 
passing  show.  None  other  could  have  made  so  indelible  a  record 
of  the  things  he  saw. 

"England  has  her  Dickens,  France  her  Hugo,  and  America  her 
O.  Henry. 

"  In  his  books  he  will  live  through  the  ages." 

Incidentally,  no  higher  tribute  could  be  paid  to  any  one  than 
the  invitation  extended  Bob  Davis  above  all  other  people  to  de 
liver  the  memorial  address  at  the  unveiling  of  the  O.  Henry  monu 
ment. 

Numerous  titles  were  the  matter  of  a  moment's  impulse  with 
him,  as  for  instance: 

"  Oh,  it's  optional  so  far  as  title  goes  —  make  it  '  Options,' "  or, 
"  I'm  all  at  '  sixes  and  sevens  *  and  can't  think, —  make  it  *  Sixes 
and  Sevens,' "  etc. 

It  was  my  privilege  to  introduce  O.  Henry  to  his  first  game  of 
bowling.  We  went  to  an  establishment  kept  by  a  German  who 
prided  himself  on  the  championship  form  of  his  alleys. 

Taking  one  of  the  heaviest  balls  in  both  hands  O.  Henry 
dropped  it  with  a  thud  in  the  middle  of  the  alley.  He  followed 
this  action  with  several  similar  attempts,  despite  the  fact  that  the 
purpose  of  the  holes  in  the  ball  was  explained  to  him.  The  propri 
etor  approached,  apoplectic  with  rage.  O.  Henry  anticipated  him. 

"  Look  here,"  said  he,  "  I've  a  complaint  to  make.  These  al 
leys  are  not  true."  And  he  dropped  another  ball  in  the  center 
that  raised  the  proprietor  an  inch  or  two  off  his  feet.  "  See,"  he 
continued,  "that  curved  to  the  left  into  the  gutter.  Now  watch 
this  one."  And  he  dropped  another,  which,  too,  failed  to  reach  the 
pins.  "  That  turned  to  the  right.  This  is  no  place  for  us  to  bowl. 
We'll  get  out  of  here." 

Needless  to  add  that  the  proprietor  interposed  no  objection. 
"Fhricht!"  he  exclaimed  as  we  passed  out  and  up  the  stairs. 


16  MY  FRIEND  O.  HENRY 

So  we  stopped  at  a  shooting  gallery.  O.  Henry  was  a  crack 
shot,  the  result  perhaps  of  his  Western  days.  Because  of  his  skill 
he  was  not  especially  welcome  in  many  shooting  galleries  along 
Sixth  Avenue.  He  had  a  habit  of  breaking  everything  up  that 
was  breakable.  This  evening  he  was  in  poor  form  and  I,  who 
cannot  shoot  very  well,  seemed  to  hit  everything  I  aimed  at. 

"  Come  out  of  here,"  he  said.  "  Everything's  crooked  in  this 
town.  This  place  isn't  on  the  level  either.  That's  not  a  rifle  they 
gave  you  —  they  sneaked  over  a  shotgun  just  to  get  even  with 
me."  And  so  we  proceeded  onward  for  some  chop  suey. 


DOUBT  if  anyone  knew  O.  Henry  better  than 
Anne  Partlan,  and  she  was  one  of  the  very  few 
old  friends  he  summoned  at  the  last.  I  quote 
from  an  unpublished  reminiscence  of  hers,  the 
following  interesting  data: 

"'When  I  read  "Among  Themselves,"  I  re 
solved,  some  day  to  camp  on  your  territory/ 
"  O.  Henry  said  this  to  me  when  I  first  met  him  in  New  York. 
The  trifle  to  which  he  referred  was  one  of  a  series  of  sketches 
which  had  appeared  in  the  early  numbers  of  '  Success '  and  had 
been  copied  in  the  '  Dallas  Times.'  In  the  months  that  followed 
our  meeting  I  was  glad  to  introduce  Mr.  Porter  into  the  toiling 
element,  of  which  the  sketches  had  given  him  some  insight. 

"There  was  nothing  of  the  brilliant  wit  about  the  great  story 
writer  when  in  the  atmosphere  of  the  shop  girl,  clerk  or  salesman. 
Instead,  there  was  a  quiet,  sympathetic  attitude  and,  at  times,  a 
preoccupied  manner  as  if  their  remarks  and  chatter  reminded  him 
of  his  old  days  of  bondage  in  the  country  drug  store,  and  the  per 
petual  pillmaking  which  he  was  wont  to  describe  with  an  amus 
ing  gesture,  indicating  the  process  of  forming  the  cure-all. 

"  One  evening  a  group  of  department  store  employees  were  hav 
ing  dinner  with  me.  Among  them  were  sales  girls,  an  associate 
buyer  and  one  of  the  office  force.  I  asked  O.  Henry  to  join  us 
so  that  he  might  catch  the  spirit  of  their  daily  life.  He  leav 
ened  their  shop  talk  with  genial,  simple  expressions  of  mirth  as 
they  told  their  tales  of  petty  intrigue  and  strife  for  place  amid 


MY  FRIEND  O.  HENRY . 17 

the  antagonism  and  pressure  which  pervades  the  atmosphere  of 
every  big  organization.  On  leaving,  he  remarked  to  me,  '  If  Henry 
James  had  gone  to  work  in  one  of  those  places,  he  would  have 
turned  out  the  great  American  novel.' 

"  On  another  occasion,  the  conversation  turned  to  feather  curl 
ing,  and  he  astonished  me  with  his  detailed  knowledge  of  the  craft. 
I  asked  him  where  he  had  learned  so  much  about  the  work  and 
he  told  me  that  in  one  of  his  first  months  in  New  York  he  was 
living  in  very  humble  lodgings  and  one  evening  found  him  with 
out  funds.  He  became  so  hungry  that  he  could  not  finish  the 
story  on  which  he  was  working,  and  he  walked  up  and  down  the 
landing  between  the  rooms.  The  odor  of  cooking  in  one  of  the 
rooms  increased  his  pangs,  and  he  was  beside  himself  when  the 
door  opened  and  a  young  girl  said  to  him,  '  Have  you  had  your 
supper?  I've  made  a  hazlett  stew  and  it's  too  much  for  me.  It 
won't  keep,  so  come  and  help  me  eat  it.' 

"He  was  grateful  for  the  invitation  and  partook  of  the  stew, 
which,  she  told  him,  was  made  from  the  liver,  kidneys  and  heart  of 
a  calf.  The  girl  was  a  feather  curler  and,  during  the  meal,  she 
explained  her  work  and  showed  him  the  peculiar  kind  of  dull 
blade  which  was  used  in  it.  A  few  days  later  he  rapped  at  her 
door  to  ask  her  to  a  more  substantial  dinner,  but  he  found  that 
she  had  gone  and  left  no  address. 

"  My  father,  who  was  an  expert  mechanic  and  an  inventor  of 
blacksmith's  tools,  once  asked  me  to  accompany  him  to  a  conven 
tion  of  master  workmen  who  had  gathered  from  all  over  the  coun 
try.  On  our  way  to  the  car  we  met  O.  Henry  and  he  asked  to 
join  us.  When  we  reached  the  hall  where  the  men  and  their 
wives  had  assembled,  they  greeted  my  father  with  a  great  deal  of 
enthusiasm  because  his  tools  had  greatly  simplified  their  work. 
O.  Henry's  attitude  during  this  ovation  might  have  been  that  of 
a  respectful  apprentice. 

"  Speeches  were  made  by  masters  of  their  craft,  filled  with  refer 
ences  to  'side  hill  plows/  'bolt  cutters/  and  'dressing  chisels 
for  rock  use.'  The  speeches  referred  to  the  most  humane  make 
of  horse  shoes,  bar  iron,  toe  calks,  and  hoof  expanders.  All  of 


i8  MY  FRIEND  O.  HENRY 

this  fell  on  no  more  attentive  ears  than  O.  Henry's.  A  Scotch 
man  presently  arose  and  spoke  on  coach  building.  He  told  of  a 
wood  filling  which  he  once  made  of  the  dust  gathered  from  forges, 
mixed  with  a  peculiar  sort  of  clay.  His  enunciation  was  not  clear 
and  more  than  once  O.  Henry  turned  to  me  to  ask  me  if  I  had 
caught  the  indistinct  word. 

"  After  the  speeches  came  dancing  of  the  Lancers  and  the  Vir 
ginia  Reel.  O.  Henry  threw  himself  into  the  spirit  like  a  boy. 
He  danced  and  whistled  and  called  out  numbers,  laughing  heartily 
when  in  the  maze  of  a  wrong  turn.  No  one  there  dreamed  he 
was  other  than  a  fellow-working  man. 

"Where  do  you  keep  shop,  Mr.  Porter?'  asked  the  wife  of  a 
Missouri  mechanic. 

" '  Mr.  Porter  is  an  author/  I  replied  impulsively. 
"Well,  I  can  do  other  things/  he  retorted  with  a  note  of  de 
fense  as  he  continued,  *  I  can  rope  cows,  and  I  tried  sheep  raising 
once.' 

"The  chairman  of  the  association  asked  my  father  to  tell  how 
he  came  to  perfect  a  hammer  which  is  now  used  in  every  forge 
in  the  world.  When  he  had  finished,  the  men  cheered  loudly. 
O.  Henry  shook  hands  with  him  and  said,  'Tom,  I  would  give 
anything  if  I  were  as  valuable  a  man  as  you  are/ 

"It  occurred  to  me  that  he  was  gathering  copy,  and  I  said,  half 
in  jest,  'Hands  off  this  territory  —  it's  mine.* 
' '  I  don't  blame  you/  was  his  smiling  reply. 
"When  we  arrived  home  it  was  past  two  in  the  morning.    My 
father  intended  leaving  the  city  on  a  three  o'clock  train  and  O. 
Henry  asked  if  he  might  wait  and  go  to  the  station  with  him.     I 
made  coffee  and  the  two  men  talked  until  train  time.    Mechanics 
and  metallurgy  were  the  subjects.    O.  Henry  asked  discriminating 
questions  which  revealed  his  amazing  power  to  absorb  a  vast  and 
unknown  theme  in  the  short  space  of  one  evening. 

"  In  March,  1910,  my  father  died.    A  week  later  O    Henry  re 
turned  from  the  South.    He,  too,  was  marked  for  the  silent  route. 
He  had  learned  of  my  loss  and  called,  eager  to  know  how  it  was 
with  the  one  who  had  gone.    Did  he  leave  debts,  or  was  he  free 


MY  FRIEND  O.  HENRY 


from  material  obligations?  W,as  he  resigned?  All  this  inter 
ested  him.  Then  suddenly  he  almost  groaned,  '  Oh,  I  don't 
want  to  die;  I  am  swamped  with  obligations.'  Then  he  quieted 
and  asked  how  my  father  felt  about  a  hereafter.  It  was  then 
that  he  referred  to  '  The  little  chickens  tapping  on  their  shells,' 
which  has  been  recorded  elsewhere." 

As  I  weave  these  memories  into  words,  I  wonder  if  artist  and 
artisan  who  on  earth  had  so  much  in  common,  will  ever  signal  to 
each  other  in  their  soaring  through  the  spheres? 


HAT   is   a  play?"   I   once  asked   O.   Henry.    "A 
play,"  said  he,  "  is  something  that  I  can't  write." 

And  he  proved  it,  although  if  he  had  lived  I 
think  he  would  have  been  compelled  by  the  call 
of  "The  Open  Door"  to  finish  it  for  Liebler  &  Co. 
After  the  success  of  "  Alias  Jimmy  Valentine," 
based  on  his  story  "A  Retrieved  Reformation," 
George  Tyler  engaged  him  to  do  a  comedy.  Campbell  (Bob) 
MacCulloch,  general  manager  for  the  Tyler  interests,  was  elected 
to  keep  in  personal  touch  with  the  "procrastinating  author-play 
wright  "  and  get  the  play.  He  spent  many  months  and  got  every 
thing  but  "  copy."  About  to  give  up  in  despair,  he  was  electrified  to 
receive  a  'phone  one  day  from  O.  Henry. 

"  Can  you  come  up  right  now?  "  he  inquired.  "  I've  got  some 
thing  to  show  you  — honest  —  cross-my-heart.  Yes,  it's  the 
play.  I've  really  started.  Come  right  up." 

And  Bob  did,  all  speed,  with  visions  of  failure  turned  into  suc 
cess. 

From  out  of  his  table-drawer  O.  Henry  produced  a  solitary  yel 
low  page  of  paper. 

"There,"  said  he,  "what  do  you  think  of  tJiatl  " 
On  it  was  written 

"Lo  —  The  Poor  Indian" 

by 
O.  Henry 


20  MY  FRIEND  O.  HENRY 

It  was  then  that  Bob  quit  and  Franklin  P.  Adams  took  on  the 
job  and  finished  it. 

From  that  same  drawer,  when  the  chase  for  the  elusive  prom 
ised  manuscript  became  too  hot,  the  famous  yellow  sheet  of  paper 
on  which  would  be  written  the  first  page  of  a  new  story,  often 
materialized.  (I  never  knew  him  to  make  a  second  copy  of 
any  manuscript.  It  always  stood  written  in  hand  writing  as  first 
drafted  and  went  to  the  editor  in  that  form.) 

"  There  now,  you  see  I'm  on  the  job,  and  just  to  show  you  that 
this  is  for  you,  I'm  going  to  have  you  write  your  name  on  it." 

After  this  operation  and  a  "little  Southern  hospitality,"  the 
editor  would  leave,  content.  And  another  page  would  be  pre 
pared  to  replace  the  autographed  one. 

To  my  personal  knowledge  none  of  these  pages  ever  took  the 
form  of  a  complete  manuscript. 


In  December,  1911,  "  Everybody's  Magazine  "  made  the  following 
announcement: 

THE  UNPROFITABLE  SERVANT 
By  O.  Henry 

"  This  is  an  unfinished  story.  It  was  written  in  the  fall  of  1908, 
and  was  delivered  to  us  at  that  time  in  this  incomplete  state.  Mr. 
Porter  promised  to  finish  it  speedily.  But  he  was  already  ill,  and 
his  long,  pathetic  struggle  to  write  in  spite  of  sickness  and  mental 
weariness  had  begun.  Mr.  Porter  had  told  us  but  little  about  the 
ending  he  purposed  for  the  story.  He  had  meant  it  to  be,  so  far  as 
lay  in  his  power,  the  definite  story  of  an  '  amateur  night '  in  a  New 
York  theatre.  He  repeatedly  spoke  of  his  hope  to  make  it  so  vivid, 
so  atmospheric,  so  true,  that  it  would  be  hailed  as  an  authoritative 
presentment  of  that  well-known  institution.  He  had  told  us,  too, 
that  the  finished  part  of  the  story  was  overwritten,  and  that  he 
planned  to  condense  it  a  thousand  or  fifteen  hundred  words  in  order 
to  make  room  for  a  comprehensive  portrayal,  occupying  perhaps  two 
thousand  words,  of  the  night  at  the  theatre.  If  the  part  at  hand 


MY  FRIEND  O.  HENRY 21 

stood  untouched,  the  completed  story,  he  felt,  would  be  out  of 
drawing.  With  this  criticism  by  the  author  in  mind,  the  reader 
should  find  an  additional  enjoyment  in  the  story.  If  Mr.  Porter 
failed  even  to  reach  the  big  scene,  he  has,  nevertheless,  given  us  a 
story  truly  O.  Henry  in  quality,  full  of  kindly  humor,  whimsical 
and  brilliant. 

"  We  should  like  to  have  our  readers  guess  how  he  meant  to  end 
the  plot.  For  the  conclusion  which,  in  our  judgment,  is  most  satis 
factory,  we  shall  award  a  prize  of  one  hundred  dollars.  The  form 
of  the  material  submitted  in  competition  is  not  of  first  importance. 
It  may  be  a  synopsis  of  the  story  from  the  point  at  which  Mr.  Por 
ter  left  it,  or  it  may  be  an  ending  written  in  full.  We  impose  no 
space  limitations,  but  suggest  that  it  is  unlikely  a  contributor 
could  to  advantage  exceed  the  two  thousand  words  which  were  to 
have  been  enough  for  Mr.  Porter.  Submitted  endings  must  be  in 
our  hands  by  January  i,  1912.  We  reserve  the  right  to  withhold 
the  award  if  in  our  opinion  no  manuscript  offers  a  suitable  conclu 
sion.  And,  in  case  of  award,  if  other  endings  besides  the  prize-win 
ner  are  sufficiently  interesting  as  instances  of  ingenuity,  we  shall 
pay  for  and  publish  them." 


Better  than  a  synopsis  are  these  excerpts  from  the  unfinished 
story.  A  careful  reading  of  "  The  Unprofitable  Servant "  as  pub 
lished  in  "  Everybody's  Magazine,"  makes  it  apparent  to  all  that 
O.  Henry  referred  again  and  again  to  "talent"  and  "genius."  In 
opening  the  narrative  he  says: 

"  I  remember  (probably  as  well  as  you  do)  having  read  the  par 
able  of  the  talents.  A  prominent  citizen,  about  to  journey  into  a 
far  country,  first  hands  over  to  his  servants  his  goods.  To  one  he 
gives  five  talents;  to  another  two;  to  another  one  —  to  every  man 
according  to  his  several  ability,  as  the  text  has  it.  There  are  two 
versions  of  this  parable,  as  you  well  know.  There  may  be  more 
—  I  do  not  know. 

"  When  the  p.  c.  returns  he  requires  an  accounting.  Two  servants 
have  put  their  talents  out  at  usury  and  gained  one  hundred  per  cent. 


22  MY  FRIEND  O.  HENRY 

Good.  The  unprofitable  one  simply  digs  up  the  talent  deposited 
with  him  and  hands  it  out  on  demand.  A  pattern  of  behavior  for 
trust  companies  and  banks,  surely!  In  one  version  we  read  that  he 
had  wrapped  it  in  a  napkin  and  laid  it  away.  But  the  commentator 
informs  us  that  the  talent  mentioned  was  composed  of  750  ounces 
of  silver  —  about  $900  worth.  So  the  chronicler  who  mentioned  the 
napkin,  had  either  to  reduce  the  amount  of  the  deposit  or  do  a  lot 
of  explaining  about  the  size  of  the  napery  used  in  those  days. 
Therefore  in  his  version  we  note  that  he  uses  the  word  '  pound ' 
instead  of  '  talent.' 

"A  pound  of  silver  may  very  well  be  laid  away  —  and  carried 
away  —  in  a  napkin,  as  any  hotel  or  restaurant  man  will  tell  you. 
"  But  let  us  get  away  from  our  mutton. 

"  When  the  returned  nobleman  finds  that  the  one-talented  servant 
has  nothing  to  hand  over  except  the  original  fund  entrusted  to  him, 
he  is  as  angry  as  J.  D.  R.  would  be  if  some  one  should  hide  under 
his  bed  and  make  a  noise  like  an  assessment.  He  orders  the  un 
profitable  servant  cast  into  outer  darkness,  after  first  taking  away 
his  talent  and  giving  it  to  the  one-hundred-per-cent.  financier,  and 
breathing  strange  saws,  saying:  'From  him  that  hath  not  shall  be 
taken  away  even  that  which  he  hath.'  Which  is  the  same  as  to 
say:  'Nothing  from  nothing  leaves  nothing."* 
His  introduction  of  the  McGowan  cousins  is  typical. 
"In  New  York  City  to-day  there  are  (estimated)  125,000  living 
creatures  training  for  the  stage.  This  does  not  include  seals,  pigs, 
dogs,  elephants,  prize-fighters,  Carmens,  mind-readers,  or  Japa 
nese  wrestlers.  The  bulk  of  them  are  in  the  ranks  of  the  Four 
Millions.  Out  of  this  number  will  survive  a  thousand. 
"  One  shall  inherit  Broadway.  Sic  venit  gloria  mundi. 
"  Cliff  McGowan  and  Mac  McGowan  were  cousins.  They  lived  on 
the  West  Side  and  were  talented.  Singing,  dancing,  imitations,  trick 
bicycle  riding,  boxing,  German  and  Irish  dialect  comedy,  and  a  little 
sleight-of-hand  and  balancing  of  wheat  straws  and  wheel-barrows 
on  the  ends  of  their  chins  came  as  easy  to  them  as  it  is  for  you  to 
fix  your  rat  so  it  won't  show  or  to  dodge  a  creditor  through  the 
swinging-doors  of  a  well-lighted  cafe.  Their  conversation  was  in 


MY  FRIEND  O.  HENRY 23 

sentences  so  short  that  they  made  Kipling's  seem  as  long  as  court 
citations. 

"  Having  the  temperament,  they  did  no  work.  Any  afternoon  you 
could  find  them  on  Eighth  Avenue  either  in  front  of  Spinelli's  bar 
ber  shop,  Mike  Dugan's  place,  or  the  Limerick  Hotel,  rubbing  their 
forefinger  nails  with  dingy  silk  handkerchiefs.  At  any  time,  if  you 
had  happened  to  be  standing,  undecisive,  near  a  pool-table,  and  Cliff 
and  Mac  had,  casually,  as  it  were,  drawn  near,  mentioning  some 
thing,  disinterestedly,  about  a  game,  well,  indeed,  would  it  have 
been  for  you  had  you  gone  your  way,  unresponsive.  Which  as 
sertion,  carefully  considered,  is  a  study  in  tense,  punctuation,  and 
advice  to  strangers.'* 

And  here  enters  the  third  character,  Del  Delano.  An  extraordi 
nary  thing  in  connection  with  this  story  is  that  there  are  only  three 
important  characters  in  it.  There  is  no  plot  and  the  whole  purpose 
of  the  manuscript  is  to  lead  to  the  "  Amateur  Night." 

"  One  night  at  about  eleven  o'clock,  Del  Delano  dropped  into 
Mike's  place  on  Eighth  Avenue.  From  that  moment,  instead  of  re 
maining  a  Place,  the  cafe  became  a  Resort.  It  was  as  though  King 
Edward  had  condescended  to  mingle  with  ten-spots  of  a  different 
suit;  or  Joe  Gans  had  casually  strolled  in  to  look  over  the  Tuskegee 
School;  or  Mr.  Shaw,  of  England,  had  accepted  an  invitation  to  read 
selections  from  *  Rena,  the  Snow-bird '  at  an  unveiling  of  the  pro 
posed  monument  to  James  Owen  O'Connor  at  Chinquapin  Falls, 
Mississippi.  In  spite  of  these  comparisons,  you  will  have  to  be  told 
why  the  patronizing  of  a  third-rate  saloon  on  the  West  Side  by  the 
said  Del  Delano  conferred  such  a  specific  honor  upon  the  place. 

"Del  Delano  could  not  make  his  feet  behave;  and  so  the  world 
paid  him  $300  a  week  to  see  them  misconduct  themselves  on  the 
vaudeville  stage. 

"  You  can  easily  imagine  the  worshipful  agitation  of  Eighth  Ave 
nue  whenever  Del  Delano  honored  it  with  a  visit  after  his  terpsi- 
chorean  act. 

"  Upon  Charley,  one  of  the  bartenders,  both  fame  and  fortune  de 
scended  simultaneously.  He  had  once  been  honored  by  shaking 
hands  with  the  great  Delano  at  a  Seventh  Avenue  boxing  bout.  So 


24  MY  FRIEND  O.  HENRY 

with  lungs  of  brass  he  now  cried:    '  Hallo,  Del,  old  man;  what'll  it 

be?' 

"  Mike,  the  proprietor,  who  was  cranking  the  cash  register,  heard. 
On  the  next  day  he  raised  Charley's  wages  five  a  week. 

"  In  the  back  room  Mac  McGowan  was  giving  a  private  exhibition 
of  the  genius  of  his  feet.  A  few  young  men  sat  at  tables  looking 
on  critically  while  they  amused  themselves  seriously  with  beer. 
They  nodded  approval  at  some  new  fancy  steps  of  Mac's  own  in 
vention, 

"  At  the  sight  of  the  great  Del  Delano,  the  amateur's  feet  stut 
tered,  blundered,  clicked  a  few  times,  and  ceased  to  move.  The 
tongues  of  one's  shoes  become  tied  in  the  presence  of  the  Master. 
Mac's  sallow  face  took  on  a  slight  flush. 

"  From  the  uncertain  cavity  between  Del  Delano's  hat  brim  and 
the  lapels  of  his  high  fur  coat  collar  caime  a  thin  puff  of  cigarette 
smoke  and  then  a  voice. 

" '  Do  that  last  step  over  again,  kid.  And  don't  hold  your  arms 
quite  so  stiff.  Now,  then! ' 

"  Once  more  Mac  went  through  his  paces.  According  to  the  tradi 
tions  of  the  man  dancer,  his  entire  being  was  transformed  into  mere 
feet  and  legs. 

"  Del  Delano  retired  within  his  overcoat  and  hat.  In  two  minutes 
he  emerged  and  turned  his  left  side  to  Mac.  Then  he  spoke. 

" '  You've  got  a  foot  movement,  kid,  like  a  baby  hippopotamus  try 
ing  to  side-step  a  jab  from  a  humming-bird.  And  you  hold  your 
self  like  a  truck  driver  having  his  picture  taken  in  a  Third  Avenue 
photograph  gallery.  And  you  haven't  got  any  method,  or  style. 
And  your  knees  are  about  as  limber  as  a  couple  of  Yale  pass-keys. 
And  you  strike  the  eye  as  weighing,  let  us  say,  450  pounds  while  you 
work. 

" '  In  other  words,  you're  rotten.  You  can't  dance.  But  I'll  tell 
you  one  thing  you've  got.  Genius/  said  Del  Delano.  '  Except  my 
self,  it's  up  to  you  to  be  the  best  fancy  dancer  in  the  United  States, 
Europe,  Asia,  and  the  Colonial  possessions  of  all  three.  Genius,' 
repeated  the  Master  — '  you've  got  a  talent  for  genius.  I'll  take  you 
in  hand  and  put  you  at  the  top  of  the  profession.  There's  room 


MY  FRIEND  O.  HENRY 25 

there  for  the  two  of  us.  You  may  beat  me ;  but  I  doubt  it.  I've  got 
the  start  and  the  pull.  But  at  the  top  is  where  you  belong.' 

"  *  I  ought  to  tell  you,'  said  Mac,  after  two  minutes  of  pensiveness, 
'that  my  cousin  Cliff  can  beat  me  dancing.  We've  always  been 
what  you  might  call  pals.  If  you'd  take  him  up  instead  of  me,  now, 
it  might  be  better.  He's  invented  a  lot  of  steps  that  I  can't  cut.' 

"  '  Forget  it,'  said  Delano.  *  Mondays,  Wednesdays,  Fridays,  and 
Saturdays  of  every  week  from  now  till  amateur  night,  a  month  off, 
I'll  coach  you.  I'll  make  you  as  good  as  I  am;  and  nobody  could 
do  more  for  you.  I'll  put  you  at  the  top  of  the  bunch,  right  where 
I  am.  You've  got  talent.  Your  style's  bum;  but  you've  got  the 
genius.  You  let  me  manage  it.  I'm  from  the  West  Side  myself, 
and  I'd  rather  see  one  of  the  same  gang  win  out  before  I  would  an 
East-sider,  or  any  of  the  Flatbush  or  Hackensack  Meadow  kind  of 
butt-iners.  I'll  see  that  Junius  Rollins  is  present  on  your  Friday 
night;  and  if  he  don't  climb  over  the  footlights  and  offer  you  fifty 
a  week  as  a  starter,  I'll  let  you  draw  it  down  from  my  own  salary 
every  Monday  night.  Now,  am  I  talking  on  the  level  or  am  I 
not?'"  

And  here  the  reader  is  led  to  "  Amateur  Night,"  where  the  manu 
script,  as  printed  in  "  Everybody's  Magazine,"  ended. 

To  Miner's  Eighth  Avenue,  Miner's  Bowery,  The  London,  The 
Dewey  on  East  i4th  Street,  and  other  burlesque  houses  where  Fri 
day  nights  were  then  given  to  "Amateur  Nights,"  we  journeyed 
from  time  to  time,  the  finish  of  this  story  being  the  ultimate  objec 
tive.  But  other  more  insistent  work  always  crowded  out  the  possi 
bility  of  its  completion.  That  is  why  it  remained  in  "  Everybody's  " 
safe  for  so  many  years. 

With  this  data  before  you,  and  bearing  the  following  points  in 
mind,  form  your  own  conclusion  about  this,  my  own  ending  of  that 
story. 

The  Amateur  Night  material  should  be  authentic  to  the  last 
degree. 

The  title  of  the  story  should  mean  something. 

Brevity,  an   O.  Henry  gift,  should  always  be  considered. 


26  MY  FRIEND  O.  HENRY 

Cliff  McGowan  should  be  introduced  for  a  typical  O.  Henry  turn 


in  the  climax. 


Professional  AMATEURS  SUPPLIED  — 
Our  artists  always  "GET  THE  HOOK" 
Our  fakers  are  the  best. 

Comedy  —  tragedy  —  dancing  —  singing, 
for  Amateur  Night 

Everything  guaranteed  a  scream! 
Our  Motto— "The  Worst  Is  None  Too  Bad." 
Author's  note  —  See  any  vaudeville  trade  review  any  time. 
Thus,  alas,  are  the  poor  amateurs  commercialized. 


T  was  not  this  kind  of  a  show.  "  Cleary's "  was 
the  only  burlesque  house  still  presenting  bona  fide 
amateurs. 

Grand-opera  patrons,  "  first-nighter's  "  and  other 
supporters  of  Broadway's  "high  (priced)  art" 
made  "  Amateur  Night "  their  weekly  excuse  for  a 
West  Side  or  Bowery  slumming  trip.  A  few 
hundred  such  in  their  evening  regalia  scattered  prominently  among 
"  Cleary's "  regular  riff-raff  greeted  the  announcer  with  a  polite 
patter  of  white-gloved  hands. 

"  Ladies  and  gents,"  he  exclaimed,  "  the  foist  act  will  be  a  song. 
Miss  Ruth  Shapely,  smg-ger." 

"  Let  loose  the  scream,"  "  Oil  her  pipes,  Jerry,"  "  Now  for  the 
big  noise,"  and  other  similar  pleasantries  were  shouted  to  en 
courage  the  debutante. 

She  looked  all  that  her  name  did  not  imply.  Built  like  an 
elongated  Pittsburg  stogie,  her  facial  expression  resembled  that  of 
a  suicidal  Dutchman  who  had  just  lost  his  taste  for  beer  and  cheese. 
She  struck  an  attitude,  and  then  a  few  false  notes.  It  was 
enough.  Trills,  roulades,  cadenzas,  cat-calls  and  weird  whistling 
effects  came  from  all  over  the  house.  The  audience  had  passed 


MY  FRIEND  O.  HENRY 27 

judgment.  Another  rival  for  Fritzi  Scheff  honors  had  passed  in 
the  night. 

"  Signer  Gregori  and  Madame  Vinsuppi,  ultra-refined  ballad- 
ists,"  came  next.  Gregori,  an  east-side  barber  with  thoughts  of 
emulating  Caruso,  made  his  way  ponderously  to  the  center  of  the 
stage,  followed  by  his  midget-like  companion.  His  three  hun 
dred  pounds  of  fat  and  tissue  were  very  much  exaggerated  by  a 
hired  dress-suit  that  was  two  sizes  too  small  for  him.  Both  ar 
tists  beamed. 

"Give  the  little  one  a  fair  chance  now,  Yousouf,"  exclaimed 
some  one  from  the  gallery,  but  the  orchestra  stilled  further  com 
ment. 

"  Oh,  the  joys  of  Spring,"  warbled  in  a  thin  light  tenor  not 
audible  to  the  greater  part  of  the  house  was  very  quickly  drowned 
by  the  other  member  of  the  duo.  "Spring!  Spring!  Spring!" 
shouted  she,  with  the  force  of  Barnum's  steam  calliope.  It  was 
not  a  duet;  it  was  an  awful  noise  from  the  female  of  the  species 
with  soundless  muscular  facial  contortions  by  her  perspiring  partner. 

"Hey,  Rosie,  give  the  big  feller  a  show,"  and  "Back  to  the 
boiler  factory  for  yours,"  failed  to  disconcert  them.  The  or 
chestra  did  the  trick.  Each  instrumentalist  played  a  different 
popular  song.  Hurling  foreign  maledictions  at  the  crowd  the 
two  reminders  of  the  Turko-Italid  fracas  made  their  get-away. 

Dan  O'Flanagan,  a  good-natured  Irishman  with  James  Thorn 
ton  aspirations,  followed.  A  shower  of  hats  descending  from  the 
flies  above  sent  Dan  back  to  the  trucks. 

Maggie  O'Sullivan  showed  that  she  had  come  to  stay  despite 
the  comments  of  the  audience.  Her  song,  "  The  Angel's  Sere 
nade,"  was  interrupted  by  a  stage-hand  lowered  just  in  the  rear 
of  Maggie,  who  embraced  her.  As  they  ascended  a  few  feet  heav 
enward  Maggie  decided  against  going  up  with  the  angels, 
wrenched  herself  from  her  captor's  grasp  and  beat  it  off  the  stage 
for  Ninth  Avenue. 

Two  local  vocalists,  a  basso  who  excelled  in  cracked  notes  and 
a  soprano  who  had  him  beat  on  the  noise  proposition,  chose 
"  Love  Me  and  the  World  Is  Mine "  as  their  individual  numbers. 


28  MY  FRIEND  O.  HENRY 

(This  is  an  institution  at  Amateur  Night.  You  get  it,  a  half  dozen 
times  at  every  performance  in  all  keys  and  dialects.)  Their 
friends  saw  to  it  that  they  finished  the  two  verses  uninterruptedly. 

Then  came  a  dancer  whose  rapid  footwork  was  upset  completely 
by  an  orchestral  accompaniment  of  Chopin's  Funeral  March. 

A  fife  and  drum  corps  coming  unexpectedly  from  up  stage 
center  proved  too  much  for  another  vocalist  and  two  other  as 
pirants  were  quickly  chased  into  the  wings  with  "  the  hook." 

"  Mac  McGowan,  Dancer,"  announced  with  a  broad  grin  and  a 
nod  of  assurance,  served  to  introduce  a  nattily  dressed  youth 
attired  in  a  swell  looking  summer  outfit.  (The  I.  P.  System,  $2.50 
down  and  50  cents  per  week  had  made  the  shoes,  shirt,  suit  and 
hat  possible.) 

Del  Delano  joined  Junius  Rollins  in  a  stage-box.  A  murmur 
of  recognition  passed  throughout  the  auditorium  as  he  seated 
himself  with  a  self-satisfied  smirk. 

McGowan,  plainly  nervous,  settled  into  his  work,  encouraged 
by  comments  from  the  gang  outside.  Several  minutes  had  elapsed 
and  "Mac"  wasn't  "puttin'  'em  over,"  as  Delano  grumblingly 
admitted  to  the  booking  agent. 

"Guess  you  picked  a  lemon,  Del,"  yawned  Rollins,  wiping  his 
dripping  triple  chin  and  seeking  interest  in  the  audience,  which, 
partisan  to  the  core,  applauded  every  little  thing. 

"Gee,  the  kid's  using  all  his  own  stuff,"  complained  Del. 
"Why  don't  he  spring  'The  Turkey  Trot/  'The  Triple  Tap,' 
'  Chantecler  with  the  Pip,'  '  The  Stuttering  Flip,'  and  all  that  high- 
class  refined  stuff  that  I  showed  him?  " 

Rollins  grunted. 

"He  won't  do  for  the  three-a-day,  no,  nor  the  four-a-day,  let 
alone  for  Big  Time,"  he  asserted  as  he  prepared  to  leave. 

Mac  had  ceased  dancing  and  the  crowd  was  applauding  wildly. 
Then  came  the  big  surprise.  From  the  left  wing,  suddenly  there 
appeared  what  to  many  was  unquestionably  a  McGowan  twin. 
It  was  Mac's  cousin  Cliff,  dressed  in  a  duplicate  of  Mac's  I.  P. 
System  outfit.  With  an  uneasy  start  Delano  recognized  him. 

The  boys  did  a  "brother  act,"  dancing  and  singing.    As  they 


MY  FRIEND  O.  HENRY  29 

wanmed  to  their  work,  here  indeed  were  revealed  all  of  the  great 
Delano's  tricks,  but  it  was  Delano  outdone  for  they  had  "  doubled  " 
on  him  and  cousin  Cliff  out-Delanoed  even  Del. 

They  did  everything  with  their  feet  but  talk  and  that  was 
pretty  well  suggested  in  their  "  Conversational  Rag  Two-step," 
The  Turkey  Trot,  Triple  Tap,  Chantecler  with  the  Pip,  Stuttering 
Flip;  all  were  turned  loose  to  wind  up  with  a  competition  jig  fol 
lowed  by  a  startling  acrobatic  exit  of  the  cousins,  one  right,  one 
left,  in  a  wagon-wheel  effect. 

The  house  was  a  pandemonium  of  excitement.  Again  and  again 
were  the  dancers  recalled.  Junius  Rollins  actually  beamed. 
Delano  scowled.  He  was  thinking  deeply.  He  sensed  the 
ominous.  It  came  later  with  a  cancelled  contract  —  but  we  an 
ticipate. 

"Ain't  it  the  limit?"  queried  the  once-great  Del  Delano,  as  he 
leaned  against  the  Cadillac  bar  some  months  later  and  gulped 
down  his  third  whiskey. 

He  was  gazing  at  a  brilliant  electric  sign  reflected  in  the  cafe 
mirror  from  Broadway's  leading  vaudeville  theatre.  It  read: 


Re-Engaged  For  Third  Week.     Great  Sensation. 

THE  TWO  MACS  — THOSE  CLEVER  KIDS 

Best  Dancing  Act  in  Vaudeville. 


"  Here  I  teach  that  McGowan  kid  my  best  stuff  —  put  him 
wise  to  everything  and  what  does  he  do?  Brings  that  sneaking 
cousin  of  his  around  night  after  night  to  get  'hep.' 

" '  Can  Cousin  Cliff  sit  around,'  says  he,  innocent  like.  *  You 
know  we  always  travel  together.' 

"Sure,'  says  I;  'let  him  stick  around  —  maybe  he'll  learn 
something.' 

"And  now  they've  canned  the  single  dancing  turns  on  'Big 
Time '  and  it's  me  for  the  three-a-day  while  these  pirates  get  away 
with  the  big  noise  at  $500  per.  Ain't  that  enough  to  drive  a  fel 
low  to  the  bow-wows?  " 

"  But,  Del,"  interposed  one  of  the  bar  supporters,  who  knew  all 


30  MY  FRIEND  O.  HENRY 

the  facts,  "you  copped  the  wrong  kid.    Mac  McGowan,  he  had 
the  talent,  but  Cliff  McGowan,  he  was  the  genius." 

|O  deal  with  the  South  of  to-day  and  to  treat  with 
severe  condemnation  the  "professional  South 
erner"  and  the  non-representative  Southern 
poseurs  who,  decadent,  still  live  with  the  Civil 
War,  was  the  intention  of  O.  Henry  when  he  died. 
He  wished  to  make  a  comparison  between  the 
useless,  shiftless,  lazy  individual  who  still  lives 
with  the  Civil  War  and  blames  it  for  his  unfortunate  condition  in 
life  and  the  hustling  "red-headed  producer  of  results  who  is  so 
busy  making  good  that  he  has  even  forgotten  that  there  was  such 
a  thing  as  the  Spanish-American  War." 

Charles  Belmont  Davis  saw  in  the  idea  its  big  possibilities  and 
contracted,  through  me,  for  the  series  for  "  Collier's  Weekly." 
But  not  one  ever  was  finished,  although  O.  Henry  had  the  scheme 
pretty  completely  blocked  out.  The  work  would  have  been  very 
difficult  and  with  his  limitations,  due  to  ill-health,  it  was  neces 
sary  to  follow  a  line  of  lesser  resistance.  At  this  period  he  did, 
however,  turn  out  "  A  Municipal  Report "  which,  while  not  repre 
senting  this  idea,  nevertheless  reflected  his  train  of  thought. 

With  the  possible  exception  of  Morgan  Robertson,  it  is  doubt 
ful  if  any  short-story  writer  of  genius,  performing  consistently 
year  after  year,  earned  less  from  his  product.  Immediate  need 
(and  there  was  always  immediate  need  — and  usually  for  someone 
else)  made  necessary  "sacrifice  prices"  for  instant  cash.  Books 
were  sold  outright  for  a  song  (a  couple  of  hundred  dollars  or 
less)  and  short  stories  for  less  than  their  legitimate  value.  On 
the  other  hand  many  editors  were  generous  with  substantial  ad 
vances  on  account  of  stories  to  be  written;  and  here  a  tribute 
should  be  paid  to  Frank  B.  Doubleday,  for  it  was  he,  who,  on 
taking  over  the  O.  Henry  works  that  had  been  sold  outright,  vol 
unteered  a  royalty  to  be  paid  in  the  future,  despite  the  absence 
of  contract  or  obligation.  And  that  royalty  is  being  sustained 
to  this  day  and  the  books,  which  sold  only  moderately  well  dur- 


MY  FRIEND  O.  HENRY  31 

ing  the  author's  lifetime,  now  run  beyond  a  million  copies  in  the 
collected  edition. 

O.  Henry  viewed  the  methods  of  those  who  advantaged  them 
selves  of  his  desperate  need  with  a  humor  and  philosophy  worthy 
of  his  greatest  fiction  productions.  How  he  "  put  one  over "  on 
a  certain  magazine  makes  an  amusing  and  interesting  story.  This 
periodical  had  repeatedly  driven  a  hard  bargain,  even  to  the  ex 
tent  of  re-selling  a  story  so  purchased,  at  profit  to  itself.  It  was 
this  action  that  determined  the  author's  final  action.  He  secured 
an  advance  of  a  couple  of  hundred  dollars  against  premise  to  de 
liver,  and  he  made  delivery  of  just  enough  pages  to  compensate 
for  the  amount  of  money  received.  "There  now,"  said  he  to 
me,  "that's  the  last  manuscript  they  will  ever  get  from  me!" 
And  it  was. 

Only  seven  or  eight  pages  of  the  tale  (some  1500  to  2000  words 
of  what  would  have  been  a  completed  story  of  4000  to  5000  words) 
was  delivered. 

As  he  predicted,  his  end  did  come  "  In  the  Good  Old  Summer 
Time,"  an  expression  which,  coupled  with  his  last  words,  "  I'm 
Afraid  To  Go  Home  in  the  Dark"  (both  popular  songs  at  the 
time),  pitifully  portray  his  recognition  of  the  inevitable  and  his 
heroic  reconciliation  to  it. 

Following  a  discussion  of  "going  over  the  line,"  the  result  of 
an  attack  of  illness  at  the  time,  he  said  to  me: 

"We're  both  up  against  it  financially,  Colonel.  But  when  the 
Big  Show  comes  off,  and  I  suppose  they  will  make  a  Big  Show 
of  it,  just  you  hire  a  taxi  and  you  and  Jo.  breeze  down  Riverside 
Drive  as  though  you  were  millionaires.  .It'll  probably  be  '  In  the 
Good  Old  Summer  Time*  and  they'll  be  wearing  top  hats  and 
frock  coats  and  all  that  sort  of  stuff.  That  will  be  uncomfortable. 
Stick  to  a  straw  hat  and  hock  your  frock  for  a  taxi." 

I  did  and  I  didn't.  The  straw  hat  was  all  right  but  the  frock 
coat  was  not  available.  But  we  breezed  down  Riverside  Drive 
in  a  taxi  on  that  glorious  June  day  to  "  The  Little  Church  Around 
the  Corner"  and  there  were  gathered  just  such  a  throng  as  he 
had  predicted. 


32  MY  FRIEND  O.  HENRY 

After  the  services  were  completed  and  the  body  had  been  borne 
away,  I  looked  back  for  a  last  glance  at  the  empty  pews  and 
beheld  a  solitary  figure,  kneeling.  It  was  a  woman  and  she  was 
praying  — a  woman  of  the  streets  whom  he  had  uplifted  and  set 
on  the  right  path.  He  was  always  doing  silent  good.  That's  the 
reason  he  never  had  any  money. 

FINIS 

It  would  be  the  desire  of  O.  Henry,  I  am  positive,  to  give  every 
possible  encouragement  to  so  gifted  a  fellow-master-craftsman  as 
Larry  Evans,  he  who  rose  above  the  trial  of  mind  and  soul,  with 
the  handicap  of  years  of  enforced  isolation  at  Saranac  Lake  im 
posed  on  him  by  ill  health.  A  youth,  only  now  twenty-five  years 
of  age,  he  has  produced  as  a  result,  a  first  novel,  "  Once  to  Every 
Man,"  that  is  nothing  short  of  inspirational  in  its  optimism  and 
genuine  wholesomeness.  And,  too,  such  short  stories  as  "  Cona- 
han "  in  " Hearst's"  "  Father  LeFevre  "  and  "  The  Painted  Lady," 
"Saturday  Evening  Post"  "Cassidy"  and  "Once  When  the  River 
Ran  White,"  "Cosmopolitan,"  "The  Man  Who  Made  Believe"  and 
"  Faith,"  "  Metropolitan  ";  all  reflecting  the  same  spirit  as  "  Once  to 
Every  Man,"  which  was  such  a  sensational  success  in  the  "Metro 
politan"  and  now  in  book  form. 

At  once  these  productions  have  earned  for  him  the  distinction 
of  being  acknowledged  by  those  who  really  know,  as  America's 
young  author  of  greatest  promise,  and  they  place  him  in  a  class 
with  such  important  "  discoveries  "  as  Rex  Beach,  Herbert  Kauf- 
mann,  Katherine  Cecil  Thurston,  Basil  King,  Rupert  Hughes, 
Frederic  Arnold  Kummer,  and  even  O.  Henry  himself,  all  of  whom 
it  was  my  privilege  to  be  identified  with  in  the  exploitation  of  their 
first  work. 

Hence,  I  have  written  this  booklet,  which  is  not  available  for 
purchase,  and  can  only  be  secured  with  the  novel  "  Once  to  Every 
Man."  The  publishers,  The  H.  K.  Fly  Company  of  New  York 
City,  will  supply  copies  of  "  My  Friend  O.  Henry  "  free  without 
charge  on  receipt  of  the  signed  blank  to  be  found  on  the  last  page 
of  "  Once  to  Every  Man." 

The  end 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


LD  21A-50m-ll,'62 
(D3279slO)476B 


General  Library 

University  of  California 

Berkeley 


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CDS3SD3DED 


